


e v a n e s c e

by QueenCamellia



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Angst, F/M, Lizzy & her reaper crew tho, M/M, Romance, Secret Identity, Secret Organizations, Spies & Secret Agents, and fluff, grey's a tsundere, he cares tho, knox & lizzy are bff goals, still don't think r!ciel is completely evil, there's heavy plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-02-08 08:41:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12860913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenCamellia/pseuds/QueenCamellia
Summary: Lizzy’s past has a habit of catching up to her.Or: Two azure-eyed twins, one stubborn silver-haired assassin, and a very overprotective blonde hacker attempt to convince Ronald Knox’s best friend, Liz, to “come back” to them. Ronald and the Reapers are not amused.[Secret Agent/Organization AU]





	1. endings

**Author's Note:**

> This is a (modern-ish) secret agent AU. The characters may be more casual (with their language, behavior, etc.) as expected of this era.  
> It's Lizzy-centric, but the character POV will vary (3 POVs per chapter).  
> It's a challenge for myself to write in present-tense, so pardon the awkward phrases here and there lol.  
> I need o!Ciel's name //sobs I also need to stop writing so many kuro fics ahahaha.

William T. Spears is not a softy, despite what rumors Grell might be spreading.

He is not a softy, which is why when Grell insists on bringing men to their Reaper base, he doesn’t try to kick them out despite knowing Grell would probably come sobbing to him later about how much of a scumbag her latest fling was.

William is not a softy, which is why he usually lets fiery and spirited Ronald Knox go after said scumbags for breaking their scarlet-haired teammate's too-big heart for the umpteenth time. It’s impractical to send two reapers after one civilian; William knows that Knox will serve justice for their teammate sufficiently without his help.

Around the base, he knows there are whispers about him. _"Spears has no heart," "he must’ve sold his soul to the devil long ago," "he must be a robot."_ All of those are lies, and William’s rather unperturbed by them. They are, as he had patiently repeated to Knox and Grell multiple times, nothing but rumors. No need to get angry over them.

Besides, the only people who matter to William know the truth anyways. His team has seen his breakdowns, his fears, his greatest moments and weakest. Every single member in the Reapers had their own broken story to tell, their own fears and pasts that they refused to recall.

William T. Spears is not a softy.

But he is not heartless, which is why when a panicked and tearful Knox stumbles into the Reaper base with a heavily injured, unknown flaxen-haired girl, he does not turn her away. The girl’s emerald green eyes, rather disorientated and cloudy from blood loss, snap open and sharpen once she spots William’s imposing figure.

“Ronald Knox,” she mumbles, and William makes a mental note to scold his ginger-haired subordinate for revealing his real name to an unknown woman. “What are you _doing?”_

“You just got _shot_ in the stomach, Liz,” Knox snaps. “And since you have some weird aversion to hospitals, I brought you here. Now shut up and let yourself get patched up, _darling.”_

“You’re actually pretty hot when you’re angry,” the girl, "Liz," snickers. “Maybe you can try getting pissed off at that four-eyed girl you keep blabbing about. She’ll be putty in your hands in no time.”

William has heard plenty of said “four-eyed girl” in the past as well, and it slightly alarms him that the blonde girl knows of Knox’s infatuations. The ginger Reaper only speaks of such matters to those extremely close to him; suddenly finding out that there’s a whole other person Knox trusts aside from the Reapers throws the stern Reaper for a loop. Even so, he manages to signal to one of the lower Reapers to prepare the Med Bay before striding forward and helping Knox guide the girl through the base.

Knox rolls his eyes, managing through gritted teeth, “Not helping, Liz.”

“Lisbeth Chevalier,” she introduces herself, looking rather composed despite the fact that she’s bleeding all over the floor. She stumbles as they pass the threshold of the clinic. “Ronald’s friend from work.”

She must mean Knox’s day job; William knows the ginger enjoys his position as a coffee barista. Knox never shut up about the job on missions. _“A cute girl gave me a tip!” “My coworker covered my shift, bless her soul.” “Did you know that we import coffee beans from—”_

William usually tunes Knox’s incoherent rambling out, which is probably why he’s never heard of Lisbeth Chevalier before. The fact registers in William’s mind and he inwardly nods to himself. That made sense. Chevalier was Knox’s coworker at a coffee shop; most likely, she had been shot while accompanying the ginger somewhere. Knox had an uncanny ability to wreak havoc on those around him without trying. He’d extract information about the would-be assassins later from Knox. Right now, William had to make sure that Chevalier didn’t blab about the Reaper base’s location or Knox’s identity to anyone else.

As the Reapers with medical training begin entering the room, prodding and fussing at her wound, Chevalier locks eyes with William’s ginger companion and smiles. “What’s got you so quiet? Usually you’d be bouncing all over the place babbling about cute girls or coffee beans.”

William’s been wondering the same thing, but he hadn’t dared to ask. Knox became rather irrational when angry.

“You could’ve _died,_ Liz,” Knox blurts out, and William almost feels as if he’s interrupting a private moment. He doesn’t really care, though: what’s important is discerning Chevalier’s relationship with his subordinate and ensuring the safety of the Reapers. It’s rare for Knox to show genuine emotion outside of his flamboyant playboy attitude, and that’s how William realizes that the relationship between Miss Lisbeth Chevalier and his subordinate is far more than just coworkers. He’s not sure if they’re lovers; something about the casual way they hold themselves indicates that their relationship is more of a friendship. “I don’t know how you’re acting so casual about it, but you could’ve _died_ and it would’ve been all on me.”

“Ah, I see. Can’t really call in and tell the boss that you’ve killed your coworker,” Chevalier says dryly. Her expression shifts, eyes blazing. “Knox, you can’t blame yourself for everything that happens to me. I’m quite accident prone, you know.”

The amount of confidence the girl exudes is slightly worrying. William hasn’t seen a civilian act as calmly as Chevalier, sitting propped up in bed and still grinning at Knox as if they had just been off on some tryst.

“But this _is_ my fault,” Knox whispers, too quietly for her to hear. William hears, though, and understands: as one of the highest ranked Reapers in their organization, assassination attempts from rival groups were regular. What _wasn’t_ regular was the involvement of a civilian; usually, Reapers didn’t interact with them for the precise fear of their weaker companions becoming collateral damage.

“Ronald Knox, how are you supposed to know that some crazy drunk is going to attempt to shoot a pair of baristas? Keeping track of every single failed cappuccino we make?” Chevalier laughs, but pauses when she realizes that her friend doesn’t laugh with her. Her smile wavers and she asks tentatively, “Ronald?”

Knox glances at William pleadingly, the question in his eyes apparent. William briefly contemplates shaking his head, but in his mind a voice that sounds suspiciously like Grell’s scolds him. It was only a matter of time before Chevalier figured out where she was; the Reaper insignia the medics were wearing hardly helped with subtlety. It’d be easier to tell the girl and threaten her to keep her mouth shut rather than forge an entire story of lies, too. Slowly, William nods.

“I’m…” Knox’s voice is hoarse, and he licks his lips and tries again. “We’re...we’re Reapers, Liz. I’m a Reaper.”

The effect is instantaneous. Chevalier blinks, opening her mouth, but no words come out. Body frozen, her emerald eyes dart towards William, glancing at the Reaper insignia sewn on his suit in disbelief. Shock registering on her face, her eyes flit back to stare at her coworker in blatant astonishment. “Ronald...you...you…” she stammers, unable to speak. Funnily enough, his revelation seems to unnerve her more than her gunshot wound.

Then again, maybe her reaction isn’t that surprising. Everyone in the country know of the Reapers, the dominant and most prevalent organization in the country of Grimland. In this modern era, _every_ country has their dirty secrets and underground organizations. The Reapers are such an organization, precariously bordering between legal and illegal. Unofficially endorsed by the King, they take care of the vermin that dare to operate within their country’s borders using less-than-legal methods. It’s a small price to pay; most of the Reapers had been criminals themselves at one point, down on their luck and looking for ways to escape from life itself. In operating for the Reapers, they were granted amnesty.

Most citizens fear them, unable to see the _grey_ with their black-and-white morals. All they see is an organization of trained assassins, not the reformed criminals underneath their cold facades.

Fear flashes on Chevalier’s face for a moment, and William’s heart feels as heavy as a stone. He’s used to the fear that accompanies their revelations, but Knox wears his heart on his sleeve. Rejection from this girl will kill him, William realizes. Then, to his surmounting surprise, the blonde pulls herself together. “Okay.”

“...okay?”

“Okay,” Chevalier confirms, slouching back in her bed rather comfortably. She crosses her arms over her chest and looks remarkably smug, somehow. It’s not a gesture William would expect her to do; it feels as if she’s picked up the habit from someone else. “You’re an assassin. A secret government agent. Right?”

William is appalled at her oversimplification of Reaper-country politics, but a relieved grin breaks out on Knox’s face. “Yeah, sorta,” he shrugs, winking at William. The cocky bastard. He already knows that William _hates_ it when people assume things about them. “Liz’s from Iresia,” he explains.

_Ah, so that’s why._

“Iresia,” William repeats thoughtfully. “That’s quite far away. What made you come here?”

Chevalier stares at him for a moment before raising an eyebrow. “Is this an interrogation?”

“We can make it one, if you’d like.”

Knox lets out an indignant sound of protest, only to be hushed by his golden-haired companion lifting a hand to silence him. “Alright, let’s do it now.” Seeing the look Knox sends her, Chevalier adds, “It’s not like I have anything to hide, anyways. Better to get it over with instead of having you all tiptoe around me, right?”

She beams at William, throwing him completely off-balance for a moment. William blinks, then adjusts his glasses in an attempt to compose himself. “Very well. Knox, my notepad.”

Obediently, Knox rises and heads outside to run and grab aforementioned slick black notebook from William’s desk. In the meanwhile, William takes his time to study Lisbeth Chevalier. “Chevalier, very interesting name,” he observes noncommittally.

Chevalier hums a tune under her breath, her voice melodic as she answers with a strange glint in her eyes, “It means knight.” Then, her lips curve upwards as if there’s some inside joke that William’s not a part of.

“So you are of French origin?” Iresia comprised of what used to be called the “United Kingdom,” so William didn’t expect the foreign last name. France, now dubbed some strange name William hardly bothers to remember, was also quite a length away from Grimland. An ocean away, in fact.

“Half French, half English,” Chevalier corrects, gesturing to her face. “Although I take after my English father more. I never learned French: just English, but that serves me well here, I suppose.”

Knox returns with his notepad and a pen, and William proceeds to question the girl for the next hour.

Something about her doesn’t feel completely right, whether it be her almost casual confidence in the Reaper’s lair to her nonchalant countenance at being shot.

Despite the fact that there are no holes in her story, William makes a mental note to keep an eye on Lisbeth Chevalier.

* * *

“What do you _mean_ you can’t find him?”

A fist slams on a desk, sending everyone in his vicinity flinching and stepping back several steps. Ciel Phantomhive — or, to be more precise, the _real_ Ciel Phantomhive — is furious, glaring at the pitiful golden-haired messenger with all the venom he can muster.

“C-Ciel just _disappeared,”_ Finnian says fearfully. To the boy’s credit, he only flinches at Real-Ciel’s glare, never faltering nor drawing back. “We already have Agent Midford...ah, I mean Edward...and the rest of the hacking team on the case. We think that he’s going to make a deal with the Demons.”

“Are you _kidding me?”_ Real-Ciel snarls, anger rushing through his veins as he tries not to imagine his frail, sickly twin brother attempting to make a bargain with the vicious group. Iresia’s underground, unlike other countries, has multiple layers and facets. The Demons are the most cruel, bloodthirsty organization in the world. Luckily enough for the Watchdogs, said bloodthirsty organization decided to base their operations in the heart of Iresia about four years ago. Both organizations dealt with the underground, but in severely different ways.

While the Watchdogs were officially endorsed by the Queen, tasked with protecting the general public through eliminating threats to both the Crown and the country, the Demons operated alone. It was said that making a contract with a demon was soul-binding, and demons _always_ collected their debts.

“H-he’s trying to find a way to get Lizzy back,” Finnian adds meekly, knowing that he’s throwing fuel to the fire.

“That _moron,”_ Real-Ciel says after a lengthy moment of silence, fists clenching. “He already _knows_ she can take care of herself, after the Campania incident.”

Which he still can’t forgive himself for missing. The true Ciel Phantomhive had gone undercover for several years, attempting to find dirt on the Demons. In the time he had disappeared, his twin brother had taken over the title of ‘Ciel Phantomhive’. For that reason, the two are simply called the Phantomhive twins — ‘Ciel’ and ‘Real-Ciel’, although people usually can’t differentiate them by sight anyways. Lizzy had been one of the only individuals who could.

 _“My Ciels,”_ she’d say with a bright smile, hugging her cousins fiercely after returning from a mission.

“Ciel’s worried about her,” Finnian confides. “She’s been MIA for the past year. You know that her brother hasn’t stopped searching, too.” _And you haven’t either_ went unsaid.

“She can take care of herself,” Real-Ciel repeats himself, lips pursing as he tries to figure out a way to intercept his foolish brother from making a deal with a demon. “I’m more worried about my brother right now.”

Finnian opens his mouth to reply, but the doors slam open and Bard comes running in. “News from Mey-Rin?” Real-Ciel guesses at his haphazard appearance. The markswoman went undercover to Grimland about a month ago, following rumors of an opium ring attempting to smuggle goods from Grimland to Iresia.

“No,” Bard gasps, trying to regain his breath. He straightens, his grim look immediately putting Real-Ciel on guard. “I’m afraid that Double Charles has returned from their long term mission.”

Ciel Phantomhive has always been a gentleman. But being a gentleman didn’t forbid him from swearing at inopportune moments like this.

 _“Shit,”_   he groans, resisting the urge to plant his face right on the desk in front of him.

First, his brother has to foolishly run off to contract with a demon because of their missing cousin. Now, he has to break the news of Lizzy’s disappearance to one temperamental, deadly silver-haired assassin that’ll undoubtedly try to murder him.

“Finnian,” he says wearily, “make sure to get me some aspirin. Bard, escort me. I’ll meet them in the lobby.”

Some people compare him to the devil. Those who know Real-Ciel disagree and respectfully insert he’s just human.

Real-Ciel likes to think himself as a saint considering all the bullshit he has to suffer through everyday.

* * *

Phipps feels as if an aneurysm is on its way. He’s a patient, calm, and collected person by nature. That’s one of the main reasons he’s paired with Grey: barely anyone else can put up with the silver-haired, self-proclaimed gentleman for too long without wanting to throttle him. And any attempts at throttling would probably be met with death at the hands of Grey’s sword.

But even so, there’s only so much of Charles Grey that Phipps can handle. He’s been working with his partner for the past _year_ undercover as _brothers_ in order to expose a crime syndicate in Russia. They’d only rested for a day before Grey demanded to swing by the Watchdogs’ base.

And as soon as they entered, Ciel Phantomhive pulled them aside into a private room to discuss an “important matter”. Aforementioned important matter, apparently, was the disappearance of agent Elizabeth Midford, one of the Watchdogs’ most talented agents who frequently partnered with the Queen’s official right hand men. Double Charles had completed over two hundred missions with Elizabeth Midford’s assistance.

And, putting their business arrangement aside, _Lizzy_ Midford is ( _was?)_ one of the few people Phipps found enjoyable. He’s not presumptuous enough to presume they’re friends, but they have ( _had?_ ) an amiable relationship.

To Grey, she’s even more than that.

 _“What do you mean she’s_ gone?”

Grey’s deafening roar makes Phipps flinch. Everyone in their vicinity gives them a wide berth as the real Ciel Phantomhive looks like he’s trying not to kill himself. Or Grey. Phipp’s partner is beyond furious. His spirited and ardent personality is only magnified by the news; Grey’s _livid._

“Just as I said, Agent.” Real-Ciel’s lips curl upwards into a condescending smirk. “Must I repeat that for you?”

That’s one major difference between Real-Ciel and Ciel Phantomhive. While Ciel Phantomhive is kind underneath all his layers of snark, Real-Ciel takes true joy in lauding himself over others. There’s good in him, like Elizabeth Midford always insisted, but Real-Ciel hides it all too well with his other personalities. He’s sadistic, manipulative, and overbearingly possessive. This is how Phipps concludes that Real-Ciel is hiding something: the blue-eyed informant would _never_ act as calm as he is now unless he knows something of Elizabeth Midford’s situation.

Grey does not make this connection. He’s too incensed, too overwhelmed by his emotions to analyze Real-Ciel’s state of mind. “What are you all _doing?”_ Grey growls. “It’s been over ten months now, right? Can’t even _one_ of you figure out where she is?”

“It was an assassination mission in Grimland,” Real-Ciel informs flatly. “She shouldn’t have taken more than a week, if things went smoothly.”

Realization dawns on Grey’s face; he’s reached some kind of epiphany that only Grey can understand thanks to years and _years_ of dueling with Elizabeth. “She’s _Midford,”_ Grey says accusingly, as if that explanation is obvious enough for Phipps and Real-Ciel to delve into his mind. “Why would you send her on an assassination mission?”

“She’s more than capable.” Real-Ciel shifts uncomfortably. “Besides, I don’t assign the missions. Go ask the front desk. Lizzy’s done such missions in the past, anyways.”

“With _us,”_ Grey hisses, and Phipps finally realizes where his partner’s going. After all, Phipps has spent plenty of missions with the pair of agents. Although he’s never particularly comforted the blonde, he knows that Grey almost constantly challenged Elizabeth to fencing matches after completing assassinations to distract her from her guilt. Something about Grey’s blunt countenance always assuaged Lizzy’s fears and doubts. “She’s done assassination missions with _us_. _Only_ with us.”

“Well, where were you two?” Real-Ciel retorts, his biting tone _definitely_ belying his identity. He laughs, his tone derisive and eyes mocking. Something about his laugh sounds almost mad, sending shivers down Phipp’s spine. He repeats himself again like a broken record. _“Where were you two?”_

Phipps almost has to hold back Grey from assaulting the Phantomhive right there and then. Luckily, _thankfully_ , Grey has the sense to compose himself and instead sends the blue-haired boy a venomous glare. If looks can kill, the Phantomhive would’ve already been dead.

Grey curses at the stiff, short boy before storming off to book the next flight to Grimland. Phipps sighs, exchanging weary looks with the Phantomhive. “You should go after him,” Real-Ciel informs nonchalantly.

“I should,” Phipps agrees. “But I noticed your other half isn’t present.”

At this, Real-Ciel’s lips turn downwards into a scowl. “That stupid idiot went off to make a contract with a demon.”

If Grey had been with them, he would have guffawed loudly. Nevertheless, it’s Phipps who stands before the Phantomhive. “He’ll return soon,” Phipps predicts solemnly. “Don’t worry too much.”

“He’s making a contract with a _demon,”_ Real-Ciel hisses, his fists clenching and unclenching as he struggles to maintain his composure. “By the gods, it would’ve been better if he had actually made a contract with a real demon from Hell rather than one of those guys. We _both_ know what those bastards are capable of.”

“He’ll be fine, Phantomhive.” Phipp’s reassurance is nothing more than a slip of paper; a wisp of a promise that probably isn’t true.

Real-Ciel’s shoulders slump. “I hope so,” he whispers, “I hope so.”


	2. chatting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> O!Ciel, Lizzy, and Mey-Rin

Ciel Phantomhive is on a mission. Well, technically he’s not on a mission. _And_ he’s technically not “Ciel Phantomhive”. But he’s been called that for so long that Ciel hardly bothers to recall his former name. He’s sitting at a bar, the bartender somewhat nervously serving him a cocktail. Ciel knows he hardly looks the part of a college student, much less an adult, to most people. Regardless, the Watchdog ID card he slides on the table is enough to assuage the bartender’s fears. _(Or, perhaps add to them_.)

It doesn’t matter what the bartender thinks anyways. Ciel has already secured the premises; now, he just has to wait.

It only takes half an hour before he feels someone else’s presence approach.

“Monsieur.” Someone slides into the seat next to him, and a smirk curls up on his lips.

“Playing the part of a Frenchman, now?” He drawls slowly, stirring his cocktail before taking a sip. “What is it this time? Assassinating a government official? Posing as the Minister’s grandson? Blackmailing the Pope?”

“Encouraging an agreement.” His voice is silky smooth, and a shiver runs down Ciel’s spine.

“So... _blackmailing,”_ Ciel concludes, sounding too much like his brother with the derision that leaks into his voice. “Always everyone else’s dog, doing the boring jobs. Then again, I’d be a hypocrite to accuse you of such when I’m the Queen’s dog, wouldn’t I...Sebastian?”

The raven haired man simply smiles at him serenely, his pristine clothing and cordial demeanor contrasting with the hunger Ciel’s words inflame in his eyes. “And for what purpose might you be seeking my presence?”

“My cousin.”

Sebastian lets out a small ‘ah’. His lips curl upwards into a smirk, and he purrs, “Lady Elizabeth.”

“Agent Midford,” Ciel corrects, the title leaving a bitter taste on his mouth. He never likes to think of his pure-hearted cousin dealing with such Watchdog matters. For years and years, he only saw her as a cheery, whimsical girl with a heart too big for the world. Then, he learned of her physical prowess during the Campania incident and his whole world shifted. “She’s MIA.”

“So I’ve heard. But why would _you_ be seeking me? ‘Ciel’ Phantomhive, master informant, ruler of Underground intelligence?” Sebastian purrs, drawing closer. “Can it be that even _you_ can’t find her?”

“Lizzy’s hard to catch when she doesn’t want to be found.”

“You don’t think she’s compromised?”

 _“Please_ ,” Ciel snorts, taking another sip. “You were on the Campania with me. And I know my cousin; Lizzy’s just in hiding.”

“You want me to help you find her.”

“Not exactly,” Ciel shakes his head, then proceeds to pull out a manila envelope. “Although there’s probably multiple factors, she disappeared for a reason. She’s not one to get queasy even on an assassination mission, despite what Agent Grey might say. She’s dedicated and knows her duties to Iresia. There’s something else at work, here.”

Sebastian’s eyes glint a scarlet red.

“Everything comes with a price.”

Ciel snorts again. _Demons really aren’t as intelligent as the public makes them out to be._ Touching his eyepatch, he murmurs, “Don’t I know that.”

* * *

 

Lizzy has been released from the bed, after many tortuous hours of having Ronald fuss over her.

Ah, no. That’s not right.

Lisbeth Chevalier... _Liz_ has been released. Lizzy’s disappeared for the time being.

Liz’s a stubborn, fiery girl who won’t be tied down by a small gunshot wound. It didn’t even penetrate that deep, and Elizabeth’s had worse. Obviously used to desensitized Reapers, the medics reluctantly agreed to let her walk around. It’s easy to pass off her nonchalance as a high pain tolerance. Alarmingly easy. The only one who seems to be wary of her is the grim Reaper, Spears, and if Ronald had been her colleague, she would’ve already scolded him for his naive trust. Alas, she can’t do such without revealing her identity, which would undoubtedly lead to disastrous results.

Ronald’s grinning at her, like usual. Liz briefly contemplates the irony of her situation. Ronald had been a symbol of hope to her; a sign that maybe she _could_ live a normal life outside of the Underground and secret organizations. But fate must be laughing at her: she ran away from one organization straight into the arms of another.

It’s not like she hates the Watchdogs. She doesn’t; she _loves_ them all, and there are times when Lizzy wishes she can return. But Liz knows that there are things at stake more important than her happiness, and making contact with the Reapers is definitely a plus. Additionally, it’s rather easy to push away the past when she’s busy giggling at one of Ronald’s jokes.

 _“Fuck_ ,” Liz laughs, the explicative somewhat refreshing to speak aloud in the base. It’s much too quiet in the Reaper base; the solemn atmosphere is accentuated by the dreary black and grey color scheme. In contrast, Liz’s golden hair and Ronald’s ginger practically brighten the hallway as much as their laughter. “I can’t believe you did that.”

_(She only was comfortable to curse around Grey, before.)_

Ronald sends her a winning grin that reminds her too much of her silver haired companion. “You’re the only person I know who truly appreciates my genius.”

 _“What_ genius?” She retorts lightly, nudging him. They’re practically _skipping_ down the hallway, exchanging jokes and retorts without constraint. Ronald fakes mock-hurt, placing a hand to his chest dramatically and proclaiming something silly about his inherent intelligence. His histrionics wash away all of her fears and memories of the past, and Liz basks in the moment.

Even though this arrangement can’t last long _(she should have detached herself from him as she realized who Ronald was, friendship be damned, but somehow Lizzy can’t bring herself to leave the only warmth she’s felt since leaving her friends and family)_ , Liz decides to cherish the moment.

Said moment is interrupted by a flurry of red.

Liz doesn’t even have time to react as her friend’s tackled from behind by a scarlet-haired person. “ _Ronald~_ ” The figure squeals. Liz’s observations yield no conclusive results if the individual is female or male. “You brought a _girl_ home.”

“Grell- _senpai,”_ Ronald complains, the honorific nearly making Liz keel over with laughter. The _weeb._ (She’s a hypocrite. She really is.) “Liz is just a friend.”

“That’s what they _all_ say at first,” Grell purrs, turning to Liz and extending a hand. “Grell Sutcliff.”

“Liz...I mean, Lisbeth Chevalier,” Liz introduces herself, almost adding a sweeping, superfluous bow before stopping herself. She inwardly frowns; she’s picked up too many habits from Grey. _(Don’t think about him: she misses him and it hurts it hurts ithurtsihurts—)._ She sends Grell a sheepish smile. “Ronald just calls me ‘Liz’, though.”

“Awh, pet names already?” Grell turns to Ronald, a predatory grin on his ( _her?_ ) face. Grell gushes, “Why, _Ronald_.”

“She’s a _friend,”_ Ronald repeats exasperatedly. Liz doesn’t blame him: they’ve repeated the same thing to coworkers time and time again. Apparently modern society couldn’t accept that a man and woman could be _just friends._ “And she’s not a Lisbeth.”

Grell studies her, then agrees. “She’s not. More of a Lizzy, actually.”

Liz tries to control her instinctive flinch. Luckily, the two Reapers are too involved in their conversation to study her reaction.

“Kind of,” Ronald agrees hesitantly, staring at her. “But to me, she’s more of a Liz.”

“Liz it is!” Grell cheered, spinning around. Glancing at the clock, the Reaper grimaces. “I need to go report to Will now, before he gets angry. You know how he gets with those things. Ciao!” They barely have a second to process Grell’s words before the scarlet-haired agent runs off.

Liz stares numbly at the Reaper’s departure. The first question to slip off of her tongue is: “Is Grell female or male?”

 _“Both?”_ Ronald shrugs. “I tried asking _senpai_ once. Something about ‘a man on missions, but a woman at heart!’ or something.”

Liz decides to refer to Grell as a “she”. “You’re close?”

Ronald pauses, probably figuring out what he can and can’t say. His emerald eyes give him away. He’s an open book to her, and Liz realizes how manipulative she’s become when she idly wonders how she can gain more information from her friend without his knowledge. “We’re a special team. There’s the Reaper organization, then there’s our team, the Grim Reapers. Death Meisters. Angels of Death. We go by a lot of names.”

Oh, Liz hasn’t just walked into the lion’s den. She’s practically walked into the lion’s mouth.

Her best friend’s a part of the Grim Reapers, the most fearsome team and division of the Reapers. Essentially, Ronald’s part of the team that is considered Grimland’s highest and most revered Underground leaders.

“Jack the Ripper.” The title slips off her mouth before she can stop it, and Liz realizes her slip-up one second too late. Although Jack the Ripper’s publically known to be part of the Grim Reapers, that doesn’t mean she should’ve concluded Grell’s identity. After all, the knowledge of Jack the Ripper’s infamous red cloak is limited to the Underground.

 _Thankfully_ , Ronald is too oblivious to put that together. However, Liz knows she’ll have to wipe the records of their conversation from the cameras later. She can’t risk having her identity blown now.

“Well, technically Jack the Ripper is two people,” Ronald reveals, making Liz’s breath catch. The Watchdogs had suspected...but… “Madame Red’s the other half.”

Madame Red. She knows that title far too well.

_Auntie Anne._

Liz isn’t sure what’s worse; knowing that the Queen _lied_ about her aunt’s death or knowing that her aunt’s now a deadly assassin for Grimland.

“Madame Red?” She repeats instead, licking her lips and inserting the natural amount of curiosity a civilian might have. Definitely not enough interest to match that of a secret agent. “Quite an interesting name.”

Ronald snickers. “Well, she probably has a real one, but she’s too cold to us for us to know.”

_Oh, Auntie Anne._

Liz changes the subject abruptly before her heart can wilt more. “Well, identity reveal aside, we were planning on getting Italian before this whole assassination attempt. Wanna go?”

Ronald’s face lights up and he quickly steers her out of the base.

Liz hates herself for cataloging the escape route and ignoring her friend’s rambling.

* * *

 

Mey-Rin is sitting at a restaurant, casually minding her own business, when her eyes happen to dart upwards at the sound of the bell chiming. Her breath catches.

_No way._

As if the figure can sense her stare, they turn around and Mey-Rin adeptly identifies the face of Elizabeth Midford. _Agent Midford,_ one of the top agents in the Watchdogs, the “Golden Knight of Iresia”, the girl who they’ve been searching for for _eleven months_ is in a restaurant with her. Agent Midford is standing next to a cheerful ginger—

_Wait a minute._

Mey-Rin resists the urge to groan and hide herself, but she has a duty to the Watchdogs to approach Agent Midford. Even if the agent’s standing next to the greatest pain in existence. She has no choice, anyways, once Knox spots her and literally _brightens,_ tugging on Agent Midford’s arm and dragging her over.

“Hey there, beautiful,” Knox greets, sliding into the booth as if joining her is his original plan. Agent Midford is standing in front of her, lingering as if she’s not sure to follow her companion’s example. Mey-Rin sighs, but gives the blonde a miniscule nod of permission.

“Knox,” she acknowledges, frowning at him.

“Wearing your glasses again? You know you’re much more interesting with them off.” Knox leers at her, and Mey-Rin can tell he remembers their one night of... _fun_ . She personally shivers at the reminder of their one night stand. Knox was good, she’d grant him that, but Mey-Rin has _priorities_ and she isn’t going to let a silly boy with a too-cute laugh distract her.

Agent Midford looks visibly appalled. “ _Ronald_ , is this the girl you’re always talking about?”

“Hell yes it is, Liz.”

So that’s the alias Agent Midford’s going by. Mey-Rin isn’t sure why the illustrious secret agent is hanging around Knox, but she won’t blow her cover. “Liz, is it?” Mey-Rin smiles pleasantly, extending her hand for a handshake. “I’m Mei. It’s a pleasure.”

“The name’s Lisbeth Chevalier, just call me Liz,” Agent Midford returns, smile cordial and grip firm. The blonde squeezes Mey-Rin’s hand gently, as if thanking her for being discrete. Mey-Rin gives a jerky nod in return.

“Liz it is. And how do you know this idiot?” Mey-Rin presses. If Knox is an assassination target, Mey-Rin knows she can assist the blonde by getting him alone. If he’s her charge to protect, then it’s of no concern to her. Perhaps Agent Midford’s “disappearance” is nothing but an elaborate cover up for a top secret mission, although the idea of _Ronald Knox_ being involved in any kind of crime is laughable.

Agent Midford deciphers her words well enough. “He’s a friend,” she explains. “From work.”

“She’s my fellow barista,” Knox chimes in.

 _“Coffee_ barista,” Agent Midford clarifies. She studies her friend for a second before turning to Mey-Rin. “Do you know he’s obsessed with you? Can’t stop blabbing about that one cute ‘four-eyes’.”

Cue death glare. “ _Four eyes?”_ Mey-Rin repeats dangerously.

Knox laughs uncertainly. “Mmhm? It’s fitting, right? All couples have to have cute pet names.”

“That’s an _insult,_ you moron.”

“I’d prefer sweetheart or darling,” Knox quips. Agent Midford _(Liz,_ Mey-Rin reminds herself; she has to be mindful of aliases or else she’ll slip) laughs and waves the waitress over.

“Might we have three glasses of red wine?” Liz asks sweetly, sending her most saccharine smile to the harried looking worker. The woman nods, pursing her lips and critically observing Knox’s rather laidback and slouched demeanor, before heading off to the kitchen. “Anyways, let’s talk. Hope you don’t mind, Mei.”

Mey-Rin dismisses her concern immediately. “It’s fine. So, tell me about yourself. How’d you two meet?”

Knox and Liz exchange looks before breaking into a laughing fit.

“He was crossdressing—”

“—it was a one time thing—”

“—at a _stripper’s_ club—”

“—it was a _dare_ —”

“—and some guys tried to pick him up so I helped him out,” Liz finishes. “Since his friends abandoned him to his doom. Bastards.”

“Undertaker’s just a little eccentric,” Knox mumbles under his breath. Mey-Rin’s eyes sharpen immediately at the title. It’s probably a coincidence; just a joke between immature still-young-at-heart adults who think it’s funny to nickname themselves after the deadly Reaper, but Mey-Rin is now on her guard.

“Undertaker?” Liz’s voice holds both amusement and what seems like a warning. Mey-Rin fakes obliviousness.

“Cedric. We call him that for fun since he’s the exact opposite of a dreary Reaper,” Knox clarifies quickly ( _too quickly,_ a voice in Mey-Rin’s head whispers). His voice lowers conspiratorially, “I swear, sometimes it feels like that guy is _immortal_ or something. He acts so old.”

And that stupid joke is enough to convince Mey-Rin that she’s starting to become too paranoid. Knox, the laidback and easygoing womanizer, _can’t_ be a Reaper. Impossible. Preposterous. She’s losing her touch.

...or, that’s what she wants to believe. Agent Midford laughs and takes a sip of the newly served wine, clinking glasses with Knox as if it were a mug of beer. Mey-Rin sincerely hopes he’s not a Reaper, because she _knows_ her obligations and what’s expected of her should he be one: ceasing contact, and potentially using his identity to assassinate him should the Watchdogs deem him a threat. She hopes she’s wrong.

_(Mey-Rin’s instincts are never wrong.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Liz + Ronald brotp tho i love them  
> And a dialogue heavy chapter with multiple plot hints! :D
> 
> Next chapter POV: Ronald, Grey, and Edward


	3. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ronald third-wheels.  
> Grey comes.  
> Edward works.

It’s been two weeks since Ronald and Liz’s run-in with the love of his life.

Well, _okay_ , maybe he’s exaggerating, but Ronald definitely finds Mei intriguing. She’s feisty and blunt, highly uninterested, and witty enough to keep up with his and Liz’s quick banter. It helps that she’s good in bed. Since then, he’s seen Mei only once more; she came to the cafe where they worked to order an espresso. Normally, Ronald would’ve been over the moon if Mei intentionally sought him out, but the main problem was that she _didn’t_ seek him out.

She sought for an opportunity to talk with _Liz._

“Not fair,” Ronald whines halfheartedly, hands over his neck as he walks alongside his semi-amused best friend. His tone is light, but he keeps an eye out for any suspicious activity. He’s not going to let his best friend get hurt again, no matter _how_ crazy of a pain tolerance level she has. He’s already failed her once; he’s not going to fail her again. “I thought Mei had finally come to see _me_ , but she comes in and chats with _you_? Bro, I thought we were cool.”

“Well, _bro_ ,” Liz returns, rolling her eyes and reaching out to pet his head affectionately. “Don’t worry, she’s all yours. Mei’s a cool friend, but I’m not interested in her.”

Ronald perks up suddenly. “Not interested in _her_ ,” he emphasizes, “but are you interested in anyone else?”

Liz hesitates for just a second before she shakes her head. If it had just been her hesitation, Ronald probably wouldn’t have noticed. But he’s gotten to know her too well, and he watches her wring her hands and bite her lips and concludes that _yes_ , she is. “Who?” Ronald asks with a sneaky grin on his face. “I can set you up on a date with my persuasive charms.”

“Not necessary, Knox,” Liz sniffs. “If I was interested in a guy — and this is _hypothetical_ , by the way — I’d be perfectly capable of hooking them in by myself.”

“But I never see you interested in _anyone!_ ” Ronald protests, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ve known you for what, ten months? And during that time we’ve somehow become best buddies. You’re instantly easy to get along with. If you wanted to snag a date, you’d do it effortlessly. So why don’t you?”

Liz rolls her eyes. “Not _everything_ is about romance, Ron,” she states firmly, her affectionate nickname making him grin despite himself.

Ronald’s undeterred. He’s a Reaper, and although he doesn’t specialize in espionage nor interrogation, he’s had training. Ronald knows he might not be the most subtle of people, but he’s _persistent_ and _annoying_ enough for people to eventually give in. Plus, it’s Liz, his best friend. “So who’s the lucky guy?” Ronald pauses and adds, “Please don’t tell me that it’s me, that’d be awkward. Not to mention it’d be entirely cliche, with me questioning you about your crush and everything.”

“I don’t like you,” Liz dismisses immediately.

“Gee, thanks. I feel the love.”

“I don’t like you _romantically_ ,” Liz clarifies, unable to keep a giggle from slipping out.

“Are you trying to play hard-to-get?” Ronald teases.

Liz sends a horrified look at him, as if he’s committed a grave sin. “With _you_? Hell no.”

Their conversation fades into a comfortable silence as they turn the corner towards Liz’s apartment. Ronald had, as the gentleman he is, escorted her home in the past when he had no Reaper duties to do. Now, after the assassination attempt, he always tries to accompany her.

“Well, this is my—” She’s abruptly cut off by someone approaching them.

“ _Lizzy._ ”

Ronald watches, fascinated, as his best friend’s face blanches immediately. He’s not sure why, but he feels as if he’s intruding on a private moment when Liz turns around and meets the eyes of the silver-haired stranger, hardly breathing. It’s really funny because Ronald’s seen this kind of cliche scenario in movies and soap operas all the time, yet somehow this scene feels so much more intimate than the drama on the TV screen.

Liz’s emerald eyes are wide, reflecting a multitude of emotions that Ronald can probably decipher if he’s given a few years. There’s fear, but _hope_ and longing and desperation and sadness and regret and—

He’s never seen her like this.

They’re both standing there, staring at each other motionlessly as if the world’s stopped.

Ronald feels severely uncomfortable, shifting his weight from his left foot to his right. He doesn’t think that this person’s a threat to Liz’s safety, but he’s still ready to intervene on his best friend’s behalf if she needs him to.

The silver-haired stranger ( _strange hair color, but he can’t really judge)_ is relatively tall. He’s shorter than Ronald, but there’s something about his demeanor and stance that are captivating. Not in the romantic sense (although Ronald’s personally totally fine with batting for either team), of course; it’s just that this man’s stature exudes confidence and charisma as if it’s second nature. He’s frozen just like Liz, hardly daring to breath as his eyes seemed to drink in the sight of her.

Liz’s breath hitches, and then, ever so softly, she says, “Grey.”

It’s as if some silent spell has been broken.

“What the _hell_ are you doing here?” Grey demands, hardly sparing Ronald a glance as he stomps past him and grabs Liz by the shoulders. He shakes her, snarling, “Do you have _any_ idea how much you freaked me out when I was told you _left_?”

“I...um…” Liz seems to be at a loss for words for the first time in her life, and Ronald can’t help but snicker. The sound draws both of their attention.

“And who’s this?” Grey asks curtly, gaze sweeping over Ronald almost dismissively. Liz bristles at his tone, but Ronald stops her with a raise of his hand. He sees the hurt and anguish in the boy’s eyes, which is why Ronald refrains from introducing himself as Liz’s fiance or something equally ridiculous as a joke. Somehow, Ronald gets the feeling that this ‘Grey’ might commit homicide for his golden haired companion.

“Ronald Knox, Liz’s best friend,” he offers his hand, which Grey reluctantly takes.

“Ryder Greyson,” Grey returns, nodding at him. “Most call me Grey.”

Then, because Ronald has no tact, he blurts out, “Are you Liz’s ex or something?”

Both of them immediately turn a furious shade of scarlet. “ _Ex?”_ Liz’s voice is shrill as she jabs Ronald in the side. To his credit, he only winces, biting his lip to keep himself from complaining about her monster strength. “That implies that we’ve dated at some point.”

“Which we certainly have _not,_ ” Grey adds quite seriously. Unfortunately, the pink dusting both Liz’s and his cheeks isn’t very convincing, and Ronald doesn’t drop the subject.

“Is _this_ the guy you’re hung up over, Liz?”

Liz squeaks, glaring at him indignantly. “I’m not hung up over anyone, _Knox_.”

“Uh-huh.”

“ _Knox.”_

“Mmhm.”

“ _Ronald_.” There’s a threat of certain death in her voice he continues, and Ronald is not dumb.

Deciding not to risk his life nor push his luck any further, Ronald laughs and instead turns to Grey. “Ryder, interesting first name. Does it mean anything? Are you also from Iresia?”

“Yeah, I’m from Iresia like Mid...Lizzy.” Then, he adds, “My name’s a bit too flashy for my taste, which is why I go by Grey. But I believe that Ryder means knight.” Then, just as Liz had when explaining her surname’s meaning, a smirk curls on his features as if it’s some inside joke.

“Woah, you too?” Ronald asks disbelievingly, analyzing the silver-haired man’s reaction. “You know, we already have enough knights with Liz, here.”

Both of them stiffen, exchanging glances. They must’ve come to an agreement, since Liz turns to him. “What about me?” Liz asked, offended.

“Uh, _hello_. Chevalier?”

“Ah, yeah. Right.” Liz giggles, rubbing the back of her neck sheepishly. “I forgot.”

“You forgot your surname.”

“I forgot what it _meant_ ,” Liz insists. “It’s not as if I constantly connect ‘knight’ with myself.”

Behind her, Grey snorts incredulously. He’s standing ridiculously close to the girl for a pair who are “not dating," but when Ronald’s eyes slide in that direction, the silver-haired man sends him a glare.

“ _Weeeell_ , I can clearly see that I’m not wanted here,” Ronald drawls, casually inching away. “Catch you later, Liz. Nice meeting you, Grey.”

“See you,” Liz beams, her smile somewhat lopsided as she glances at her silver-haired companion.

And then Ronald hightails it out of there, _still_ feeling awkwardly uncomfortable.

This experience has led him to conclude one thing: being a third wheel _sucks_.

 

* * *

 

“What were you _thinking_?” Midford hisses as soon as she’s confirmed that her companion is gone. She’s glowering at him, and Grey feels some sense of exhilaration run through his veins at her thrilling anger. Midford’s always thrown him for a loop in some way or another, and although he doesn’t particularly appreciate spending two weeks searching Grimland for her, there’s a sense of satisfaction knowing that he’s found her first. That he knows her best, and knows how to trace her and where she would go. “Calling me ‘Lizzy’? Blowing my cover?”

Grey shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets. Then, he states the obvious. “You’re not on a mission.”

It’s true. Grey’s confirmed that she’s completed her assassination mission already, anyways. The target was a wealthy Grimland banker, although his file didn’t seem like much to Grey. Midford’s expertise could’ve been used in much better places.

Midford hesitates before shrugging. “You could’ve endangered my identity.”

“C’mon, Midford, I know you. You always go by some variation of your name; Beth, Lisbeth, Liz, Lizzy, Eliza, Liza...the list goes on and on. Why else would I use your first name?” Grey’s slightly affronted that she thinks he’s that stupid. As flamboyant and reckless he may be, Grey’s a veteran agent. They’ve worked together so often that they don’t need words to communicate; she _knows_ he’s more than his shallow adrenaline-junkie front.

“You’re so...so…”

“...brilliant and handsome? Don’t worry, Midford, I get that a lot,” Grey finishes smugly.

“You’re such an _arse_.”

“Ouch, hit me where it hurts, will you?” Grey feigns hurt, placing a hand to his chest. "So...Chevalier."

"Ryder," she returns. They stare at each other for a long moment before bursting into laughter. It's a strange sight: two of Iresia's most dangerous secret agents standing in a Grimland apartment and laughing over their chosen cover names. The irony can't be greater, though. Who knew that Iresia's "Golden Knight" could have such a sense of humor?

"Subtle," Grey remarks teasingly.  _Although,_  he supposes,  _Iresia's' Silver Knight isn't much better._ Then, his mood changes and he addresses the pressing matter at hand. “Where have you _been?_ Why haven’t you returned home yet?”

“Is that place...can I call it my home?” Her voice trembles, and even though she is staring down at her toes, he knows from her tone of voice that she’s trying not to cry. Crossing the distance between them with two swift steps, he grabs her shoulder and bends down to look at her in the eyes.

“Midford, what’s going on?”

She lets out a bitter laugh. “Wouldn’t I like to know that.”

“You’re in trouble.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“Stop being so evasive,” he snaps, temper flaring. Then, abruptly, his anger dissipates. “ _Damn it_ , Midford,” his voice breaks before he presses on. “I’m just trying to _help_. Why won’t you let me?”

“I _can’t,_ Grey.” She throws her hands up hopelessly in the air, shaking her head. “I can’t.”

“Do you know that your cousin went off to make a deal with a demon for your sake?”

She pauses. “Which one?”

“The other one. Not the real Phantomhive.”

“Ciel _is_ a real Phantomhive,” she snaps. “He might not be ‘Ciel,' but he’s still a Phantomhive nonetheless.”

Grey rolls his eyes, raising his hands in surrender. He’s never understood why his brilliant partner always defended the two Phantomhives, both of whom are total  _bores,_ but he’ll let it slide for the moment. His need for answers outweighs his instinct to belittle the azure-haired twins. “You know what I mean, Midford.”

“Sorry,” she apologizes, shoulders sagging. “Listen, Grey, I really _am_ glad to see you. I truly am. I just don’t think you should be here. Aren’t you supposed to get proper authorization before searching for MIA agents, anyways? That would’ve taken you at least a month, considering how long I’ve been gone.”

“Good thing I was never one to follow the rules,” Grey counters. He drops all pretenses right there and then, crossing his arms over his chest. “Midford, I’m _worried_ about you. Your cousins are worrying about you. Heck, even _Phipps_ is worried, and you know how uptight that bastard of a partner can be.”

That, at least, elicits a small smile from her. “I miss them,” she admits. “I miss them a lot. I missed _you_.”

Grey wonders if it would be foolish of him to kiss her. It’s always been a lingering thought of his:  _“Midford’s looking decent tonight”_ and _“if that bastard gets frisky with her, I’ll chop his hand off”_ have sometimes occurred in his mind. He’s just not used to thinking such thoughts when facing her directly, and _that_  is why he's thrown off balance.

“Yeah, well,” he fumbles for a response. “It was boring not being able to fence with you for a year.”

“Ah, your _brothers_ escapade.” She snickers, probably trying to imagine Grey and Phipps acting as siblings. Although ‘Double Charles’ look somewhat similar with their silver locks, they’re most certainly _not_ siblings. Whatever kind of ordeals she might be imagining of undoubtedly pale in comparison to the real thing: thinking of those days makes Grey _shiver_. Phipps can be a mother hen when he wants to be. “How was Russia?”

Grey shrugs, unable to summarize the desolate loneliness and numerous close-calls they had in words acceptable for a lighthearted conversation. Finally, he settles on: “They had terrible tea.”

She snorts. “Figures, your priorities. Did you meet any nice girls?”

“Not really.” At her skeptical look, he elaborates, eyes locked on her, “Not anyone _worthwhile_ , anyways.”

His message is clear, and he _relishes_ in the blush that spreads across his partner’s cheeks. It’s hard to elicit such a reaction from the agent.

“Do you want something to eat?” Midford rises from her seat, playing the proper hostess. Or maybe she’s recalling Grey’s enormous appetite. It doesn’t matter _why_ she does, since Grey’s been anticipating such a comment.

“I already have a reservation for two at that nearby restaurant. You liked Italian, but I seem to recall that French was a close second?” Grey’s tone is arrogant, his dismissive tone and flippant actions probably making him look like a bastard. He’s been told such by several women. Midford’s not like any of them, taking his words in stride: she knows the man behind the frivolous gestures, the subtle meaning behind every one of his gestures.

A smile quirks on her lips. “You remember my food preferences? What a charmer.”

“Only for you,” he quips lightheartedly _(truthfully),_ extending his hand. “Shall we?”

She laughs, her voice like the tinkling of bells, and it’s as if they’re back in Iresia on an escort mission again. For a moment, Grey can fool himself into believing that things are normal.

Then, his senses kick in and he’s shoving her down on the floor, shielding her with his body...right before something shatters the window and sets the apartment aflame.

 

* * *

 

 

Elizabeth Midford has been gone for eleven months and twelve days. Officially, she’s been missing for around ten months. The Watchdogs have a policy of not sending search groups until at least a week after lack of contact, considering the amount of precarious situations their agents can get in. Delays and unexpected complications are a normal part of their missions.

Even so, eleven months is a bit much, especially considering they’ve confirmed the target as dead. Not to mention, it’s _Elizabeth Midford_. The idea of her utterly screwing up on a mission is laughable.

Many think her dead. Perhaps Grimland had a sniper ready to take _her_ out, they whisper.

Edward steadfastly refutes all of those rumors. He knows his little sister. Lizzy’s a genius when it comes to Watchdog activities, and she loves them too much to just _leave_ for no reason. That’s why he, as the youngest and most effective hacker in the organization, hasn’t given up.

He doesn’t search for her. Oh, no. As much as he wants to shelter and protect her, Lizzy is safe.

He knows this because of his cousin, Ciel Phantomhive. Real-Ciel.

 

_“I’ve made contact with her,” Real-Ciel tells him._

_“Where is she?”_

_“I don’t think I should tell you.” His eyes dart warily at the cameras in the building. “She’s safe, she loves you, but she needs help.”_

_“Name it.” Edward’s response is immediate._

_Real-Ciel’s lips curl upwards and he tiptoes, leaning into Edward and whispering, “We have enemies within our organization. Find them.”_

_This should be earth-shattering. The Watchdogs are the elite, the best, and undoubtedly trusted by the Queen. But somehow, Edward’s not surprised: he knows that Lizzy’s disappearance has unusual circumstances surrounding them. “And you?”_

_“I must gather allies. Once upon a time, my twin had friends in the Asian Alliance. I’ll be making contact with them once again. I also made several...friends during my long absence.”_

_“And what of Ciel?”_

_Real-Ciel smiles at him. “He’ll catch on.”_

_It may sound cruel, but Edward has grown up with his cousin. Unlike nearly everyone else, he and Lizzy understood Real-Ciel’s nature. It’s a test, a game, and a show of trust and faith all combined in one statement._

 

That’s why Edward continues to work normally at the Watchdogs. At night, he uses his personal computer to search through files he’s smuggled out of Watchdog agents. If he can’t help his sister physically, he’ll damn well assist her from afar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the plot thickens. :D  
> (Protective!secret agent!Grey is too precious. Third wheel Ronald, too. And ofc Edward, poor protective darling who wants to rush over to Lizzy's side but can't.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alois, Undertaker, and Ciel

Alois Trancy is bored.

Despite his occupation as an assassin (or, perhaps a little more accurately, jack of all trades), the past week has been ridiculously boring. The three assassination missions he was given were terribly mundane: all he had to do was sneak into the party with a false identity he himself created, act particularly stupid so the wealthy wouldn’t suspect him, and slip some poison into the wealthy noblemen’s wine.

The Watchdogs are giving him shitty missions. He had expected such, but it’s still irritating nonetheless.

“So boring,” he complains, and he briefly wonders if he should’ve stayed an arms dealer after all. Alois is a creative person: he can’t stop _doing things_ , because otherwise he gets rather bored. At least making mass weapons of destruction gave him something to _do_. Assassination is dreadfully boring at the moment, and nobody’s come in to forge a new identity for two weeks. Making fake identification documents and backstories are one of his few joys in life.

As if his prayers _(hah_ , prayers: Alois has never been religious) have been answered, the door swings open and in strides a tall, black-clad figure. Despite not wearing her usual conspicuous scarlet coat, he recognizes her in an instant.

“Angelina Dallas...to what do I owe the pleasure?” he drawls, moving a white pawn forward from the chessboard in front of him. He flips the chessboard around, then takes the pawn with his black knight.

She is direct, as always. “Why is my niece in Grimland? And why is she cozying up to one of my team members?”

Alois pauses, blinks, and sets down his bishop. “Your niece? Agent Midford, I assume.”

It’s a trivial matter to fake unfamiliarity with Elizabeth Midford’s name. Alois had perfected the art of faking human emotions when he was seven years old. Unfortunately, the scarlet-haired woman is undeterred.

“Tell me,” Madame Red demands.

“You’re not wearing red for once,” he observes, a rather disturbing grin spreading over his face. Alois _knows_ he unnerves people with his attitude. He’s sadistic, manipulative, and twisted. Then again, most of his clients are just like him, which is why Madame Red does not waver even under his unsettling gaze.

_“Why.”_ It isn’t a question, but a command.

“Why do you think I would know?”

“Stop deflecting.”

“And you _shut up!”_ Alois snarls, standing up and slamming his hands against the desk. He’s satisfied to see her flinch. Alois recomposes himself, closing his eyes and reminding himself to take several deep breaths before sitting back down. He owes Angelina Dallas, like it or not, and one forged identity is not enough to make up for the night when she saved his life. That is why he says, “I don’t reveal information about my clients.”  
It’s enough for her. “Thanks,” she says curtly, nodding and striding out of the door without a care in the world. Alois is somewhat envious of her nonchalance.

Because unlike Angelina Dallas, Alois is unable to hide under a new alias and slip away from his enemies.

_After all, the Watchdogs are always watching._

As if on cue, the door swings open once more. “Why was my aunt talking with you?” Elizabeth Midford demands, striding inside rather regally despite the soot smearing her cheeks. Behind her follows a charred-looking Charles Grey along with an exasperated looking Charles Phipps. Alois eyes both of the silver-haired men with suspicion before shifting his attention to the blonde.

“Madame Red is a rather fickle person: how would I know?” Alois asks with a sneer.

“I have approximately ten minutes. I need to hurry to a hospital before my worrywart best friend shows up,” she deadpans, easily dismissing Alois’s hostility with a single glance. “I need my forged medical records _now.”_

Under her breath, she mutters something about “cowardly bastards” and how they should’ve “fought her face to face” instead of pulling such a move.

“Testy, testy,” Alois says, but he’s already standing up and walking over to a file cabinet. “I’ll sneak the information into the hospital database. I have a few connections over there, anyways.” He hands a vanilla folder to her and nods. “Keep me updated, will you?”

“You’ve probably been keeping tabs on the Reapers and I already, anyways,” Elizabeth laughs, but she gives him a curt nod. “Thank you, Agent Trancy.”

It’s refreshing to hear that title again.

“Good luck, Agent Midford,” he acknowledges, and watches her walk out of the door without sparing a glance at Double Charles, who linger behind. Alois waits in anticipation for the inevitable confrontation, rocking back and forth on his heels while observing the pair of silver-haired men as if they were scientific specimens. They seem to size him up, as well. It takes a minute or two, but his patience is eventually rewarded.

Charles Phipps gives him a measured look. “You know things.”

A- _hah,_ much too easy. “I know a lot of things.”

“Care to explain why one of the Watchdog’s most prized agents is back here in Grimland taking backwater missions, Agent Trancy?” Charles Grey asks, his face mirroring that of a predator’s. Without Elizabeth, Agent Grey shows his teeth more.

But Alois has teeth of his own. “Do go ahead and try to find out,” he invites saccharinely, then his face hardens. “Now, get out.”

“You know things.”

“And you two don't,” Alois bites savagely. “You two are unwitting pawns on a board you know nothing about. Stay away from Midford and I.”

* * *

 “Her apartment _caught on fire_ ?” Knox’s high pitched squeak grinds on Undertaker’s ears, but nonetheless his attention is peaked. _Hm, hm. Arson. How utterly delightful._

“Why the _fuck_ weren’t your sentries _guarding_ her?” he snarls, his grip on his phone tightening to the point that Undertaker fears the young Reaper will break it before he can gather enough information. “And where is she?” He pauses to listen for a moment, then nods to himself. “I’ll be on my way.”

“Going somewhere?” Undertaker questions, his amusement leaking into his voice. Knox whirls around, glaring at him as if he’s _daring_ Undertaker to protest him ditching their meeting. “Now, now. No need to act so hostile, Ronald~ I’d like to meet Miss Midford, too.”

“Miss...who?” Knox gives him a questioning look.

“Oh, sorry. Wrong person. I mean Miss Chevalier,” Undertaker says, smiling innocently at the ginger. Knox looks contemplative, sparing multiple glances at his teammate’s unusual attire before studying Undertaker’s expression and realizing that it’s futile to protest.

“Fine, let’s go.”

* * *

 “Now, now, you’re acting rather rashly, Young Master.”

“Shut up, Sebastian.”

“Rather like a child,” Sebastian drawls. His voice is low, husky, _seductive,_ just _oozing_ with pheromones. Ciel is largely unaffected, trudging along the river with his ever-prevalent scowl on his face. “My, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you act so bratty, my lord.”

“The last time you met me, I _was_ a child,” Ciel glowers at him, clenching his fist tightly. His jaw unsets and he relents, “I need to reach Lau as soon as possible without getting caught. God forbid we get caught by Alliance officials.”

“A Watchdog and a Demon on the Asian Alliance’s soil certainly _would_ merit international attention,” Sebastian agrees. His tone is pleasant, as if he is talking of the weather rather than their actions’ repercussions on international politics.

Ciel sends him a disgruntled look before giving him a dismissive wave. “You told me you had contacts.”

“And I do,” Sebastian says smoothly, gesturing to the rowboat approaching them from across the river. “Meet my acquaintance, Agni.”

“Acquaintance.” Ciel’s tone is guarded, careful.

“He is the bodyguard of a former target of mine,” Sebastian informs. “However, I saw that it would be of more benefit to assist him and Prince Soma, as their interests aligned with mine. And my client was rather unrefined, anyways.”

“Mister Sebastian, we’ve been expecting you,” greets Agni. He inclines his head humbly at Ciel, his smile vaguely reminding Ciel of Tanaka, one of the elderly receptionists for the Watchdogs. “And you must be Ciel: we have heard many things of you. Hurry now, my prince awaits.”

“And what about _Lau?”_ Ciel demands, glaring at Sebastian.

“One step at a time, Young Master. One step at a time,” Sebastian answers enigmatically, smiling at the azure-haired agent. Ciel turns away before he begins dwelling on and regretting his decision to hire the Demon.

They reach their destination quickly; it’s a quaint, small cottage by the riverbed, tucked in between a glade of willow trees. In front of the cottage is a tanned man; although his decor is minimal, Ciel recognizes him. “Prince Soma Asman Kadar, a pleasure,” Ciel greets. “Ciel Phantomhive, agent of Her Majesty.”

“Except this isn’t an errand for her, is it, Agent Phantomhive?” Soma asks knowingly, gracing them with a toothy grin. “Come inside so we can talk. It’s always fun to meddle in other countries’ affairs. I brought Lau.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, using this simple, dialogue-heavy writing style is so much fun ahaha


End file.
